


Ergo sum

by orphan_account



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, and I am a really horrible person, and implied electrotorture with dildos, and involves dildos, napoleon is made for whump, this is super rapey, though it is not explicity rapey, victoria is kind of batshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a calculated decision to let his eyes slide open, barely at all, the most shuttered of angles, an invisible extrusion from the illusion of sleep to anyone not practically perched on Napoleon's chest.</p><p>Of course, that's where Victoria is hovering. Naturally. Obviously. Staring at him, with a half-smile. Napoleon's eyes widen a fraction, the game done, and before he can even breathe to say a word, her hand quicksilver fast lashes out to slap him hard across the face.</p><p>It's a more effective wake-up than even a bucket of ice-water, and Napoleon finds himself wincing, working his jaw.</p><p>"Do you know you talk in your sleep?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ergo sum

**Author's Note:**

> A micro-fill, written for the following prompt:
> 
> BECAUSE I HAVE SEEN NO PEGGING PROMPTS AND I NEED IT.
> 
> I have to say, I somehow don't think they meant this, but this is what happened anyway. Thank god no one can see you die of shame on the internet.

Napoleon is too good at deceiving to actually show some sign of his waking, but underneath the yolk of the strict mental discipline required to maintain a disarming pattern of placid breathing -- no more than 12 breaths per minute -- his mind races.

He's still in Victoria's office, on his back on what the fabric underhand identified as still the pleasant coarse plushness of the calf-hide sofa he'd been --

\-- _drugged and threatened upon and how could he not have realized Gaby was playing them all_

\-- right.

Napoleon fakes an inelegant snore, realizing that he's held his breath perhaps a little too long. In case anyone, is, in fact watching him. It'd be sheer dumb luck if Victoria and her goons had decided he was now too deep in stupor to be a threat. Sheer dumb luck, however, has on occasion been the saving grace of thieves and spies alike, and Napoleon has to wonder if, perhaps, today's ill-fated meeting might be a little easier to walk away from than he'd suddenly dreaded as the world had slid away from him scant minutes before.

_or has it been hours, now? Surely not days, or else I'm dead, the world has been blown to the moon, and this entire speculative exercise is in fact purely academic after all_

He pushes nails into his palm -- a small, allowable movement, if it lets him regain focus, and instead of focusing purely on his breathing, Napoleon stills his mind and listens. No footfalls, no tapping, no tell-tale shifts of air, no squeaking of Bruno Magli heels on cold marble. Napoleon almost dares a smile.

It's a calculated decision to let his eyes slide open, barely at all, the most shuttered of angles, an invisible extrusion from the illusion of sleep to anyone not practically perched on Napoleon's chest.

Of course, that's where Victoria is hovering. Naturally. Obviously. Staring at him, with a half-smile. Napoleon's eyes widen a fraction, the game done, and before he can even breathe to say a word, her hand quicksilver fast lashes out to slap him hard across the face.

It's a more effective wake-up than even a bucket of ice-water, and Napoleon finds himself wincing, working his jaw.

"Do you know you talk in your sleep?"

Napoleon doesn't, at least not usually. He's not sure if this is a tactic, if they're back in an interrogation now. "Did I divulge any juicy secrets? The location of American nuclear launch codes, perhaps? Or maybe just the color of my underpants?"

And another slap, on the same cheek, this time accompanied with Victoria's delighted laugh, and firm grip on his jaw, forcing eye contact this time, and no moment to collect himself.

"You would've been such fun. It's a shame you've turned out to be something as boring as a spy."

And while Victoria's face screams practiced, cultured amusement, her mouth twists around the word "spy" like a foul leaf of arugula in an otherwise perfect _insalata verde_. Her nails dig like talons of some terrifyingly patient bird into Napoleon's jaw. A few more ounces of pressure, and Napoleon's sure he'll bleed.

"While I would personally love to attend to your denaturing myself, I have other plans you yourself are already quite aware of. I hope you will forgive my rudeness, darling, but my time here with you to prep you for your proper talking to is quite limited."

"Shame."

"Indeed." Victoria sighs, leans in and kisses Napoleon on the forehead. Napoleon tries to use the moment to use his hips to roll her off balance, but his body barely twitches at his command, and more-over, he realizes quite suddenly --

"You didn't think I'd leave your thieving hands free, did you?"

"I had hoped." Napoleon wonders if he's losing his touch, because instead of unflappable sarcasm, that had actually sounded annoyed. Fire ants start to dance across his wrists and up his forearms, and now, with the excessive movement, his elbows and shoulders start to wake up, protesting the position they've been bound in to.

"Try not to struggle too much, it's wound copper wire, and quite prone to breaking the skin of squirming little killjoys who like to operate out of their depth."

"You really do think of everything."

"More than you know, my dear. Now, it's time for you to choose."

And it's the malicious delight in her voice that makes Napoleon's stomach drop to his knees. He hopes it doesn't show on his face, and Victoria is up and off of him now, stalking with perfect staccato rhythm to where she has two ornate wooden boxes laid out on a coffee table, something like a leather belt lying between them. She crouches to maintain eye level with Napoleon, and bites her lip. Last night, Napoleon would've thought her coy. The sudden intrusion of their more carnal activities isn't a particularly welcome one, adding a savory blend of nausea and surprisingly infrequent shame to the growing pit of fear he's doing his staunch best to ignore.

"One of these is my favorite, you see. Vintage, surprisingly supple, with a pleasant heft to it. The other is a little collaboration with Herr Doktor Rudi Teller -- he's got a mind for invention, and the end result certainly does have quite the modern _spark_." Victoria smiles at Napoleon as if she's sharing a secret, brimming with something he truly hesitates to call joy, regardless of how well it seems to fit the blush in her cheeks.

"What if I want it to be lady's choice?" Napoleon tries, hedging to see if she'll be more frank about the boxes' contents.

"Oh, Napoleon, don't try to get out of picking, because I'll choose both; one and then the other, and then maybe both together to see if we can't fit them in for a stretch."

And maybe it's the way she rocks back on her heels to explain this, maybe it's the way she cradles her head in her hands, or the salacious way she says the word "stretch," but Napoleon suddenly has an idea, a _horrible_ idea, of the nature of what exactly the contents of Victoria's boxes could be used to achieve.

He can't stop the blush that starts to creep up his neck, even if he thought himself capable of curtailing most every emotional response under extreme duress. Napoleon's only small victory is that he _can_ and does stop it from spreading to his face. He imagines he looks indignant, and that's a lot better than many of the other possible conclusions Victoria could come if he had far poorer self-control.

"If it's a show you're looking for, don't you have one or two strapping _mantenuti_ lying around somewhere who could do the heavy lifting? I'd hate to see you ruin a perfectly good Rabanne dress -- it's more art than design."

"Though he mostly writes ignoble garbage, like most French authors, are you familiar with the phrase attributed to Charles-Guillaume Étienne, I believe it goes: _on n'est jamais servi si bien que par soi-même._ "

If you want something done right, do it yourself. Napoleon licks his lips. "And here I thought you were a fan of delegation."

"Not of the _fun_ things; at least -- not if I can help it," Victoria says, waving a hand in front of her face dismissing the silly notion of letting someone else quite literally fuck Napoleon for getting caught undercover. "Now, pick _mi bello_ , I have people to kill."

Napoleon says the first thing that comes to mind. "The smaller one."

Victoria tuts, and stands, equipping a scornful frown. She seems almost disappointed. "What a uncreative, cowardly way to choose."

"But I gave the gentleman his choice, and the smaller one it shall be," Victoria, sighs, and hikes up the skirt of her dress. She takes the pile of leather from the middle, and starts to wind the straps of the belt into a harness of sorts, that cups her ass in a positively crude fashion as she tightens the straps here and there. There's a base ring of some sort centered squarely over the mound of her pelvis. He watches her flick open the box on his left with a quick, annoyed, jerk of the hand, and what she lifts out --

It's not. Well. It's not as frankly phallic as Napoleon was expecting, rather almost like a thick antenna made of hard metal, with a balled, bulbous top. It has some exposed wiring at the bases which appear to be connected to some sort of battery. The entire thing from base to tip can't be more than 6 inches in length, for which Napoleon is almost hysterically grateful, but it's girth is another matter entirely. As Victoria palms it and twists it to lock into the ring on her belt, Napoleon can't help but notice the fact that her hand can't fully encircle the thing, and he can't stop himself from squeezing his eyes shut, struggling (clandestinely, he hopes) a little more against his bondage, and muttering,

"Christ."

Which does nothing but make Victoria smile. "I knew you'd like it, it's a magnificent piece of ingenuity, if not the most anatomically accurate."

He doesn't correct her assessment of his headspace, doesn't rise to her bait. The last time Napoleon had something, _anything_ in his ass was years ago and so furtive and fumbling and not something he _ever_ let himself think about for quite a few reasons including the fact that sodomy was certainly one addiction he was fairly positive the CIA wouldn't tolerate.

Napoleon has a moment of quiet and surprisingly clear thought where he hopes, beyond hope, that Peril will still be able to stop this sadistic bitch, that maybe Gaby's betrayal is simply another of Victoria's games, before her devil herself's fingers on his shirt, sliding then through the gaps in the button line and then setting her long, sharp nails into his skin, tears his mind back to his present predicament.

This isn't going to be pretty, Napoleon realizes. Or elegant. Or suave. 

"I want you here for this, darling. I want the horror of the pleasure I'll bring you to ride with you into the hellish death I have all planned out for you," Victoria breathes into Napoleon's ear, letting the garish metal cock rub over the front of his trousers in an obvious fashion. "Don't be a spoilsport."

Napoleon closes his eyes.


End file.
